What I'm reading: The Burnt House, by Faye Kellerman
What I'm writing: Chapter 11, scene 2.
This morning, I performed an annual ritual. I went to the closet, up on that high shelf under a pile of "don't want to throw it out, but don't really need access to it" stuff, and took out the dusty box. Inside, in its protective plastic, is the heavy white album with "Our Wedding" embossed on the cover.
I open it and time does an immediate reversal. Tears spring to my eyes as I see my late grandparents walking proudly down the aisle. Little did I know how soon they would depart this earth. And my father-in-law is there, too, tall and a bit uncomfortable in his city finery.
My parents, on the other hand, have hardly changed—except for the clothes and hair. Curls piled on top of Mom's head; long sideburns on Dad (which despite the passing years still remains the same almost-black). My brother's smile hasn't changed a lick, as he stood in as "best boy", barely old enough to be a legal witness, but it between it being field season and military obligations for so many of my husband's circle, he was the only one who could be counted on to be there. He's still got all his hair, too—although a bit more gray than our father. Thanks for the genes, Mom & Dad!
And to Mom, for saving the dress all those years—both daughters used it. You got your money's worth.
Because I know my husband reads this, I'd like to take this moment to say, "Thanks, honey, for thirty-eight years. And yes, I, too, would do it again." I knew he didn't have the good hair genes and it didn't stop me then. Bald is beautiful.
And, thanks to Photoshop's ability to take those old, faded pictures and make them look new, here we are. If only there were the same kind of buttons for us in the flesh.
Here's to another thirty-eight.